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Thursday, December 26, 2013

Doors...like eyes... are guardians of story.




 Why do they pull me close and still my feet? Why do I photograph them and stare at them and steal other people's door pictures?
    I linger in front of them and sometimes want to sit and make myself at home? Why is that? In my head begins a story as I imagine lives going through them?  I hear whispers calling from the other side. A promise waiting to open before me.
     Let me just have a little peak through the window. 
     No. That's a lie. I want to enter through it, feel the knob in my hand, push it open. Let me invade and go all the way in. All the way to the back porch and yard where swings and hearts dwell.
     Why do I imagine it? That's not my door. Not my right.
     But what about the compelling? A compelling that holds me because I think the threshold wants me there. That something is happening and if I leave I'll miss it. A compelling that brings me back to stand and photograph the same porches and doorways over again.
     Are the doors like the first notes in the song of a life? Pretty on the outside, but perhaps just blushed and mascaraed to contend. A pretense? Beautiful first notes don't mean the song won't be sad.
     And where in the cracks and holes and peeling paint, things old and broken and faded,  do I see beauty? The story in the scarred wood makes my curiosity run far and fast and sometimes I can't catch it so I just let it go and then wonder. What if this door's song sings of the greatest of love? 


I know all these doors carry their real songs on the other side where the truth and the secrets and the lives really dwell.
     Do I want the song of the door side I see to be true? Authentic to the rooms behind? 
How many of them like faces with eyes are practiced?  Facades that manage their outcome. Do I really want to hear all of the voices and know all the secrets inside? I think not.



        And yet, the charm and notch and knockers and ivy and peep holes and color of each one carry mystery and story and I want to stand by them all. 
        When I see my porch I ponder there too because inside it is my story. One only God and I will ever fully know. It's messy and beautiful and sad and miraculous.
        My hope would be this...if you push inside and see my mess, stay long enough and dig deep enough to find love.



















Sunday, December 22, 2013

Confession. It's time

It's a biblical command.
It's good for the soul.
And so... 

A car came into my lane and hit me head on going 40 mph.
Could God have prevented the accident? Yes. But He didn't.
Did God save my life? Yes. I absolutely know that He did.
The man that hit me had no drivers license. It was suspended months ago because he had no insurance. I don't like anything about that. And yet...before I knew any of this, his wife came to the emergency room to tell me that he was sorry and I was blessed.

So now what? 

Is God doing something in the heart of the man who hit me? Will he be held accountable?
Does God have plans for me in the still and quiet season that He set-apart for me while my bones heal.  
I believe the answer to all of these questions is, "Yes."

I don't like the way the pain medication makes me feel. But I hurt and my muscles are sore so I take it. I am irritated and I have no patience. Give me patience Lord.

I pray for Grace. I need lots. I need it for myself. I need it for my husband. He needs it for me. I need it for everyone who loves me and everyone who loves me needs it for me. I am thankful that God gives it in abundance. 

In that abundance, I will find my Euchristeo praise. 

I reel with frustration. I feel helpless, old, weary and weak.
Going to the bathroom, getting something to eat, just getting out of bed is a challenge. 
I see the scars on my husbands face and neck where large chunks of basil cell cancer have been cut from him in the last two weeks and I feel sick.

And yet...I walk in a season of communion with the Lord like I have never known. I have new eyes.  Spiritual eyes. I see God everywhere. I feel his presence. I really feel it.   

I draw and paint. I hold chalk between my fingers and I see a miracle on the paper. It took a huge step of faith to jump head first into a place I knew nothing about, but now, in the simple act of obedience, I get to see a miracle. 

So I acknowledge God's power and presence in a gift he placed in me for his purpose and my great joy. I can't explain it. There are no words. 

But I know. I see. And I praise.

So I will settle into this place on my "Glory Road" in faith. I trust God's plan. He has proven that he is trustworthy and so even as I struggle and whine and cry, I will also praise. 
    I remind myself of what Jesus took to the cross for me and my portion of suffering becomes inconsequential. I will be restored. 
    And every day I look at the book on my nightstand, "Nineteen days," about the life of Samuel Parkins who died five years ago on Christmas eve but I can't read the book. 
     I know the story. I know what God did through Dan's blog of this time, but the family is precious to us and I know their suffering. I think I don't want to remember.
     Mine is nothing. 
     So it is in this place of perspective that I will settle in. Jesus died for me. God saved my life when the man without a license hit me head on. And God has great plans for the short life of Samuel Parkins. 
     
     May my confession help me walk in the will of my Father. May it be filled with the hope of the Gospel, and may it glorify and bring praise to a God who is present, powerful, and worthy. 

     I love you Lord.     

Ezra 10:11
Now then make confession to the Lord, the God of your fathers and do his will.

Hebrews 10:23
Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful.

Daniel 9:4 I prayed to the Lord my God and made confession, saying, “O Lord, the great and awesome God, who keeps covenant and steadfast love with those who love him and keep his commandments.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

A Walker's zipper bag of Praise...

     



My girlfriends found me sitting at the top of the four stairs that lead down to our office and the new room that I call home. I was pouting because the zipper broke on the bag that another friend had tied to my walker, and now everything was falling out. I loved being able to take things with me from room to room. Now what was I  going to do?
     "Can we help you find another bag?" One of them asked. "Yes please," I reply, and I tell them where my bag stash is. They get them and go through them carefully trying to find one that compared in size to the one I had tied to the walker with the broken zipper because...
     "I really loved that one, " I told them. "It was the perfect size."
     "Does it have to have a zipper?" One of them asked. 
    "Well...yes."  Duh.  "I tried to get my water cup back from the bedroom with out the zipper and it fell out twice."
     "None of these have a zipper, Pam. I'm sorry."
     "What if we saftey pin it?" another said. 
     Have I mentioned that I am irritated by almost everything. 
     "I don't have a safety pin that big." I was trying hard not to sound as cranky as I felt.
     "Wait a minute!" One of them said as she got up and went outside. 
     Chris came back with the perfect zippered bag.  
     She explained that she uses it for groceries and that it had disappeared recently. She went on to say that she thought it might have been left it in the desert during a recent trip but had found it in her husbands car. 
     Now, here it was in her hand, just for me.
     "It's perfect." I squealed. "But...it's your favorite grocery bag. What if I break this zipper?" 
     "Ahhh," she replied waving the thought away with her hand. "I don't need the zipper."
     And so...irritated and all. I love my friends. I also love that God chose them and put them in my life for such a time as this with the simple gift of a walker bag...

Monday, December 9, 2013

Wading through a birthday flood...

My road to glory has had its obstacles, but I did not see this one coming and it flattened me.
I am broken and hurting but I've been here before and I know what to do.
And so...I climb into His lap.
It's familiar and warm and I snuggle in. I'm gonna be here awhile.
He holds me close and whispers reminders. Skies and sunsets and mountaintops and a garden. A death on a cross. Redemption. Grandsons. Promises. Truth. Knowing.
I never thought I'd be in a head on collision at 40 mph by snowcreek golfcourse on my way to Husky Club.
I have 3 fractured ribs, four fractures in three foot bones, and more bruises than I can see but this is nothing compared to what He endured for me.  I dont deserve better, and yet...
He is already at work making beauty from ashes because of a love I can not fathom and He knows that I wrestle with anger because the person who hit me had no drivers license or insurance and He knows I am sad because I loved my car and my phone and they were both destroyed. I say this knowing that these are just "things" and that many people never own a car or a phone and I understand how shallow this sounds and how very blessed I am but the statements and feelings are true all the same and I weep because I know He cares about my anger and my saddness and is at work in my own heart even now because of it.
I can not put my right foot to the ground for 6 weeks and it may need screws and a plate. I will know on Wed. But in this season of change I will get precious and quiet time with Him so I will talk and pray and praise which is a better birthday present than any "thing" of this world could ever be.
My new phone is on its way and so my pictures will follow because I see God everywhere and in the seeing of Him I draw near in worship and the knowing of Him follows this.  It is in this knowing that I can crawl into his lap not having the understanding or answers of why Samuel lived only 19 days or why Seasons precious Kicker was diagnosed with cancer,  but I can settled into his arms in absolute trust of His perfect love and soverign grace over all these things.
So...I sit in His lap. I sit in his lap and wait.